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Post by exile on Apr 18, 2008 11:25:39 GMT -5
Stepping through the threshold into the comfortable interior of The Friendly Fiend, Hadrian could hear the faint ring of a bell issuing from deep within the store. For the moment at least, the shop floor was deserted save for the myriad and alien displays of armaments, trinkets and attire that littered the establishment. Pacing slowly between the semistructured aisles, the aasimar could not help but marvel at his surroundings and the wonderful oddities to be found there in.
Arriving before a shelf cluttered with crystal statuary, Hadrian reached out carefully for an apple sized piece in the shape of a humanoid skull. Turning it over in his grasp to admire the care and attention directed into every facet of its workmanship, he cursed aloud in sudden astonishment and nearly dropped the thing as its bejeweled eyes swiveled about in their deep set sockets to latch on to his own. Quietly restoring the object to its place on the shelf, he continued his aimless wanderings muttering softly to himself.
At the heart of the open room were a number of glass ensconced displays of particular value. In one of the cases, floating lazily on the wings of some enduring enchantment, was a breathtaking spear composed of woven branches individually the thickness of a man’s thumb. At its tip was a blade of polished amber lovingly embraced by the spiraling shaft. Peering closely, Hadrian thought he could spy a small dark shadow forever encased in the petrified sap.
He could almost swear it was moving.
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Post by Stix on Apr 18, 2008 12:08:05 GMT -5
"It is a beauty, isn't it?"
Hadrian turns to find himself face-to-face with a grinning, bespectacled arcanaloth holding a silver tea tray. "A relic of the Beastlands, from a tribe of savages who live near the Forbidden Plateau. Their name for it means 'Pierces-Spirits'. Looking closely, you'll see why."
He sets the tray on a chest-high table nearby, lifting the steaming teapot gingerly in his long, wicked claws. "Would you care for some?" he offers in the manner of a genteel host. "Limbo blue tea, picked in its prime -- a very robust pair of flavors."
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Post by exile on Apr 18, 2008 12:39:49 GMT -5
(I don’t think I could have asked for a more seamless reply, thank you Stix.)
With a final glance cast longingly towards the magnificent weapon, Hadrian nodded his agreement and turned to give his full attention towards the evident proprietor. “I would appreciate that, thank you,” he replied, waiting patiently as the fiend filled a delicate cup on an equally fine saucer. “No milk or sugar, please,” he added in response to a questioning gesture from the arcanaloth. “I prefer it dark.”
Gratefully accepting the proffered drink from his host, Hadrian raised the steaming tea up to his lips, and inhaled deeply on the flavorful blend before taking in a draught.
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Apr 18, 2008 22:42:34 GMT -5
The door opens to a gust of smoky Lower Ward air, and the thin, shrouded Dustman standing at the threshold. She steps into the cluttered shop, veiled eyes swivelling about to take in everything at once, so she takes little notice of A'Kin and his guest.
She still wears her dirty grey grey apron - suspicious looking brown stains spatter the dull fabric - apparently having forgotten to take it off before departing the Weary Spirit that morning.
She walks slowly about the shop, pausing every now and then to peruse some exotic oddity that catches her eye, before moving on to the next shelf. The air about her is that of studious reflection and absentmindedness, an obliviousness that shields her from the outside world. Something has unhinged her to draw the frail melancholic woman back into her shell.
Uathach stops by the display case holding the spear. She ignores it. Though the weapon was undeniably beautiful, what caught her eye was the exotic object hovering in the neighbouring case. It looked like a miniaturised cube of Avalas, with runes and other strange writings scrawled across it's perfect plane surfaces. Clearly it wasn't crafted by human hands. Only a modron, or some other being with flawless understanding of mathematics and geometry could craft such a wondrous replica.
It held her transfixed as she watched it float in the clear glass; then it began to shift before her eyes! It split into segments, filled by an inky darkness between. The segments spun and joined together again, seamlessly like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, revealing a new set of runes and symbols on each side.
Uathach turned away from the display case, and rubbed her eyes and temples. Whatever that thing was, there was more to it than what meets the eye.
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Post by Stix on Apr 24, 2008 13:08:01 GMT -5
A'kin politely excuses himself from Hadrian to approach Wraith.
The tea doesn't so much have a taste as a sensory experience. Initially, it is sharp and astringent, but quickly becomes smooth and minty. The tastes ripple across the palate, one on each side of the tongue, then weave and occur sporadically all about, as though Hadrian were swallowing two fighting flavor-creatures alive. It leaves no aftertaste.
"Welcome back," A'kin says to the Dustman (regardless of whether she's been here before). "Tea?"
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Post by exile on Apr 24, 2008 18:39:21 GMT -5
Hadrian offers only the slightest of acknowledgment to his host's departure, all thoughts to the outside world swept away for the moment by the embrace of texture and scent. As the revelry subsided upon his tongue, the aasimar found himself standing unexpectedly alone. Turning to inquire after A'kin, Hadrian instead found himself staring into a hauntingly beautiful and increasingly familiar face. As was frequently the case, or so he was beginning to learn, she looked troubled and worn frail.
"Hello again, Sister," he exclaimed with a warm smile that was tinged with concern for her wellbeing.
A gentle nagging in the back of his thoughts demanded his attention and reminded him of his purpose for coming before he could become lost in renewed company. Over the course of his scribing the night before Hadrian had run across a minor setback. Lacking the appropriate materials to pursue his craft properly, his creations invariably failed to retain the enchantments for which they were designed. And furthermore, after hours of hand-cramping labor it had become abundantly obvious that a traditional goose feather quill would not suffice for the delicate symbols demanded of him by the formulae. First and foremost, that needed to be rectified.
"Please, sister, if you will give me but a moment, I had some quick business to attend to." Turning to address A'kin he continued. "When you have a moment, sir, I was hoping you might help me to locate a suitable writing implement for scribing. And thank you kindly again for the tea."
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Post by Stix on Apr 27, 2008 20:27:59 GMT -5
"Yes, of course," A'kin says with a smile -- a surprisingly gentle-looking one for a yugoloth. "Are you taking the traditional pen-to-parchment approach?"
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Apr 28, 2008 21:01:44 GMT -5
"Yes, tea would be nice. Thankyou." Wraith replies, graciously accepting the profered cup from her genteel host. She doesn't think twice about accepting the offering, or the eccentric yugoloth's behaviour. She'd been here before, and A'kin had always been, well, not quite like others of his kind. Though she'd never dealt with any of them personally; nor would she want to.
"Elysian porcelain?" She asks, indicating the delicate china cup she balances in one hand. She wasn't entirely sure, didn't recognise the fine embellishments, painted by an articulate hand into the thin border. But it resembled the cup she always served her mother's tea in... until it mysteriously shattered the night before she died.
Sighing wistfully, Wraith raises the cup to her lips, as the smiling yugoloth returns to his other guest.
Hadrian...
Both the name and gentle melancholic voice invoked memories lost to the chaotic jumble of the past few days. Numb and bone-weary from her toil, Wraith had sunk into her daydreams; it was the only way of shielding herself from Tetch's senseless barbarity. So she didn't immediately recognise the sad-eyed Aasimar, juxtaposed by the bespectacled Arcanoloth.
Wraith lowers her tea cup, before the riotous blue steam even teases her nares. Opening her mouth to speak, she turns away instead; Xanathis' warning, if it could even be said to be that, still danced on the edge of memory. Watch how you act around the Bleaker lad, he'd hissed at her. Or something along those lines.
She shudders emphatically as a cold, slimy sensation prickles her scalp, and crawls down her spine.
If only you could read my thoughts, Hadrian. Then you would know how terrified I am. She laments silently, glancing at the Aasimar; hoping vainly that her haunted stare is enough to transmit her truer feelings.
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Post by exile on Apr 28, 2008 23:19:16 GMT -5
“The traditional approach?” Hadrian remarks in bemusement. “I was not aware there was another. I suppose so, yes.”
His attention directed for the moment at the yugoloth, Hadrian fails to notice the longing, mournful glance directed his way by Wraith. The woman’s inner turmoil and long absence of late were seemingly lost on the Bleaker, whose own life had been recently consumed by all manner of troubles and trials. Hadrian’s one time piercing gaze had seldom found focus in recent days and he tended to drift through the hours like a shade in the night.
Whether Hadrian’s addled mind had even registered the sudden withdrawal of his kindred spirit from the ranks of the Dead was uncertain at best.
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Apr 29, 2008 21:17:56 GMT -5
He doesn't even see how tormented I am. I am invisible to him. Wraith laments, turning a blind eye on the Madman. In her own turmoil and grief, she fails to see how deeply troubled he appears to be; how he has diminished since she last saw him, how the crushing weight of existence has carved new lines into his face, stealing the edge from his azure eyes. She doesn't see that he has his own inner demons to contend with. Retreating back into her shell, Wraith circumvents the cluttered shop, neglected tea cup in hand. A wild clamour of blue, tinged with an alluring sweetness, and a riot of fragrant spice, tickles her nostrils. She breathes deeply; a profrusion of noise, silent as a scream in the darkness, clashing with effervescent colour, and a fleeting ray of bitterness, dances upon the palate, and leaps away without a trace. All this without tasting the tea. A Sensate would enjoy this... Unless he found it trite already. Wraith muses. Before she even realises it, she samples the hot tea, and begins to hum a curious tune... "And there I was one morn,
A star-gazin' true,
As one would normally do
In the late hours of noon.
And lo! As if by a ray
from the dark of a gray day
I was struck down
with inspiration.
I ask thee, Chaotica,
for am I Immortal?
O whilst Thee be awful
to not call me a Loon?
A lark, a leon,
alight, oh night feather!
A spark to the right
is sure like the weather!
A mark of Time pass
burns bright as the Truth;
turns as the Yuletide
to steal Our youth.
Is this like the dark, then?
Or a shark to the mark?
Or maybe my bark
shines brighter today?
Spare me, oh father,
for Light brightens the way.
And whence with thee come,
crash running today?
By and far sooner than
the quark that burns stark?
Throw this mourn home, then
and dance backward this way!..."Uncertain if this is a peculiar manifestation of her growing madness, a side-effect of the tea, triggering spontaneous creativity, or something more, Wraith peruses the shelves; oblivious to her odd little song. [OOC: the poem is to the tune of Cornflake Girl by Tori Amos.  I hope I haven't overstepped any bounds with my description here, but reading the other posts gave me a lot to work with. ]
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Post by Stix on May 1, 2008 12:22:10 GMT -5
"The pen is by far the most popular," the arcanaloth starts, setting down the tea tray and sidling behind his desk. "Some who prefer to keep their work proprietary use other media. It's said that the practice originated with a cabal of witches who wrote their 'scrolls' by weaving symbols into quilts. Whatever its origin, those who know of the practice call it 'spellweaving'."
A'kin cheerily continues his lecture at the slightest sign of interest. "I've seen the contents of full volumes composed of strings of dried leaves and knotwork patterns. Tattoos are often popular. There's a story of twin mages who braided their spells into one another's hair, but were left helpless when a Xaositect sheared them in their sleep. It's a brilliant thing; it inspires such original thought. There are a few who can teach it, if it interests you."
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Post by exile on May 1, 2008 15:05:57 GMT -5
“Spellweaving you say? That does indeed appeal to me; I would like very much to meet one of these people you speak of.” Hadrian sounds earnest in his tone, and it is not simply for the sake of social niceties that he agrees to A’kin’s implied offer. “But for today I think, a pen will more than suffice. Can you show me what you have in stock please?”
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Post by Stix on May 8, 2008 11:23:26 GMT -5
"It would be my pleasure," says the arcanaloth, already bent low to search for something under his desk.
"Ah, here we are." He straightens up, laying out one object from each hand. The first: a black, awl-shaped stylus engraved with runes of varying shape and size; the second: a forearm-length feather colored with bright flame-like hues.
"The runecutter is able to scribe spells through the fifth house, and the phoenix-quill pen works well for anything up to the second house. I'm certain that I have others available, if these are of no interest to you and you'll permit me the time to search my stock for them."
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Post by exile on May 8, 2008 23:22:17 GMT -5
“No, cutter, that’s quite alright. I think the phoenix-quill will suit my needs admirably. How much for the pen?” Hadrian reached for the exotic plume as he spoke, testing the feel in his studious grasp. He seemed to approve.
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Post by Stix on May 13, 2008 11:30:48 GMT -5
"Twenty gold pieces. Will there be anything else?"
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Post by exile on May 13, 2008 16:45:33 GMT -5
“That and the name of a spellweaver, if you please, cutter,” Hadrian replies with a grin. Counting out the required jink, the aasimar claims his new acquisition and stows it carefully in his pack. Casting a quick glance back over his shoulder, he spies the wandering Dustman and watches her murmuring to her private melody.
With his transaction complete, Hadrian saunters off after the tiefling dead and waves to her. “I’m sorry, sister, I had business that needed to be taken care of. Now what was I asking? Oh yes, tell me how you have been?”
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on May 13, 2008 21:45:03 GMT -5
Wraith resumes her idle wandering, pausing to persuse the objects on the opposite side of the cluttered shop. Dust collects around the curios, giving the pleasantly dark interior a quaint, antiquated air. Her old black robes, stained by the blood she'd nearly slipped over in the morn, swish with a dry sussuras on the bare floorboards.
She pauses by the shelf, oblivious to Hadrian's approach, and carefully lifts the lifelike triodrone doll off the shelf for a closer look. Humming wistfully to herself, something else soon catches her eye. It protrudes, seemingly discarded, from one of the bins at her feet. Placing the doll back on the shelf, Wraith bends for a closer look:
It's an old mahogany violin.
Forsaking her tea on the shelf beside the grinning modron, she sinks to her knees, and reverently lifts the violin from the bin. Her hands were shaking. Though one of the strings was missing, and another hung loosely from the frets, the craftsmanship was superb, lovingly engraved with knotwork and curling leaf designs.
Only then as she gazes upon the violin with all the wonder of a lost child, having finally returned home, does she become aware of Hadrian's presence.
The words that flow from her lips are low and soft, like a mournful wind keening through the elms in a graveyard. "I have been caught somewhere between wakefulness and a dream, my steps haunted by horrors and shadows of grief. I am... lost. I feel displaced, disjointed. None of this is real. I find that I am slipping away from all I once believed... and I am afraid. It's a cold terror, numbing me from the inside out, stilling my hands when I should be focusing on the task before me. But my mind wanders..."
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Post by exile on May 14, 2008 19:12:42 GMT -5
Looking upon his friend and confidant with an expression of grave concern, Hadrian clasps his hands about Wraith's as she cradles the masterful instrument. "Are you quite alright, sister?" he inquires with a worried inflection to his voice. "You don't seem yourself today. Come and tell me whats been troubling you. Perhaps I can help."
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on May 14, 2008 20:24:22 GMT -5
Looking upon his friend and confidant with an expression of grave concern, Hadrian clasps his hands about Wraith's as she cradles the masterful instrument. " Are you quite alright, sister?" he inquires with a worried inflection to his voice. " You don't seem yourself today. Come and tell me whats been troubling you. Perhaps I can help." She wanted to say to Hadrian, as she stared at him through vacant, bewildered eyes. I'm terrified... of the Dead, of Xanathis, Ridnir Tetch, all of them... Or maybe I'm just seeing things that really aren't there. I'm losing my mind. Her mind wails. But the words just wouldn't come to her, no matter how hard she tried. Her lips moved, forming the words she wanted to say, it seemed, yet there was no sound. Only the feeble mutterings of a deeply traumatised woman trapped within her own mind; at least for now. Fear had done this to her. Fear, and horror. Though she'd been exposed to the squallid hell-hole that was the Weary Spirit before, this time it made an even harder impact upon her. She was afraid of what might happen if she failed Xanathis' test, or rather, what her own fear made her think would happen. She'd seen something horrible in the Mortuary that night - or thought she'd seen something horrible - not even a week ago, and it made her fear not only for her own safety, but also Hadrian's. She wanted to tell him, but she didn't dare. Even if she could, her own fear strangled the words right out of her. Wraith's face blanches as she realises what she has been thinking, and she recoils from Hadrian with a little squeak, nearly dropping the voilin, and holds up a hand as though to shield herself; or ward him away. |
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Post by exile on May 17, 2008 8:59:23 GMT -5
Hadrian was left gaping at the unexpected response, arms falling numbly by his sides. It was clear that he had crossed some sort of line, but what or how he could not begin to fathom. Something was terribly amiss inside of Uathach’s psyche; the woman wore her fear like a mantle. Wraith was frequently a mystery to Hadrian, but their last few meetings had caused him no end of concern. And yet without her consent, what could he possibly do to help?
“Forgive me, sister. I did not mean to cause you alarm. Perhaps I had better go.”
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I hope I haven't overstepped any bounds with my description here, but reading the other posts gave me a lot to work with.